


what once was mine

by ladanse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Podracing, Rapunzel AU, Romance, hopeless gays (tm), lowkey a tangled au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladanse/pseuds/ladanse
Summary: "So, kid," says Han, sliding into the booth and setting twin glasses of something smoking in front of them. "What do you think?" He gestures expansively around the crowded, dusty cantina, and takes a sip of his drink.Luke gingerly unsticks his elbow from the table. "It's...nice."-A canon-divergent, loosely-Tangled/Rapunzel-based OT AU, featuring a vengeful Palpatine, high-speed podraces, hopeless gays, cameos from possibly every likeable tcw/pt/swr character, and the Luke we all deserved.





	what once was mine

**Author's Note:**

> notes: see the endnote for a few quick warnings about abuse!

Luke wakes up.

  
The station still buzzes with its usual tuneless hum, devoid of life; his Master is out, leaving the holotable quiet and cold; Artoo is charging peacefully by the wall; and the dent in the plating above his bed is as denty as ever.

  
A normal morning, then, except for the obvious: tomorrow, Luke turns 18. Tomorrow, he will be eighteen years old, and he's resolved: Luke is going to find a way off this goddamned lump of floating metal if it's the last thing he does.

  
(Assuming his Master lets him, of course, but Luke is hopeful. He has been keeping up diligently with his training, and he is as practiced with a lightsaber as he is in using the Force, even if his experience with mind tricks is purely theoretical. The Empire is a dangerous place, Luke knows, but he is strong: surely, with Darth Sidious with him, it won't hurt to set foot into a real ship? Ride through the stars, jaunt around the Outer Rim - and maybe even jump into hyperspace?)

  
His morning is the same, rote whirlwind of chores and training, training and chores. Unsurprisingly, abandoned Republic bases near the fringes of Wild Space need quite a lot of maintenance; more when Sidious does his Dark Side shake-the-station shtick; after just a few years of practice, Luke is as skilled a mechanic as any on Tatooine or Old Coruscant.

  
Well. At least, he likes to think so. He wouldn't know if it was true, considering he's never actually met another person.

  
"No, Artoo, you don't count," Luke says, in response to the droid's offended beep. "It doesn't matter how many subroutines your last owner abandoned you with. Besides, how would you know? Your memory was wiped." Artoo makes several distinctly sulky hoo-whee noises, and Luke laughs. "I know, I know. Master's speeder alignment is all messed up, and my memory's fine, thanks. I'll go fix it now."

  
The job is quick. If he takes an extra hour to fly long, sweeping loops around the outside of his station (but not beyond, never), only Artoo needs to know.

  
Eventually, Luke finishes, and he allows himself to sit down with his favorite flimsy - one that Sidious had put together for him, a collection of holovids and news articles that tells the story of the rise of the Empire - usurped by the powerful, steady Empress Amidala and her fearsome enforcer, Darth Vader. They have a daughter - a princess, bold and fierce as her parents, and legend tells of a son as well; a boy who had been stolen away and killed by a Force-user when he was an infant in arms.

  
Each year, the crown held a podrace in honor of the lost prince, on Vader's first home - Tatooine. The planet was a slaver's haven until Vader and his daughter had liberated it, nearly seven years ago; now, it was the commerce hub of the Outer Rim, the home of the most-watched sport in the entire galaxy, and a beacon of freedom.

  
Tatooine is just visible in the sky beyond his station, and so every year - on Luke's birthday, incidentally - the planet is set alight with photonic radiation from the pods and long, professional ion trails from the spectator's ships, leaving a shower of gold across the sliver of sky in his bedroom window.

  
Luke's only dream? To be there. To attend - and maybe even fly in - that race.

  
And this was the year he would.

  
*

  
"Luke Skywalker," Darth Sidious intones, gravely.

  
"Master," says Luke, giving him a quick bow. "I'm glad you're back early - I thought that we - "

  
"Now, young Luke," admonishes the Sith, throwing back his hood, "you will find that chatter must wait." Luke takes in his wizened face, and sighs.

  
"Exerting yourself again, Master?" he says, smiling ruefully, and allows Sidious to grip his wrists, gnarly hands grinding the small bones together. Luke manages not to wince only out of the ease of long habit.

  
"Do it," says the Sith Master.

  
Luke reaches inside, looking for the light. He finds it - near the part of his spirit that flew outside, earlier that day - the joy of his illicit fight bursts to blinding fullness, the memory darting to the front of his mind - no, Luke thinks, wrenching his focus away - he shrinks from it, trying to hide -

  
It's too late. Sidious latches on like a leech, and Luke watches the light borne of freedom, of flight, steadily circle the black hole that is Sidious's presence in the Force, before falling inside - not reluctantly, but with something rather like resignation. I can make more, Luke reminds himself, and focuses instead on the feeling of repairing Artoo's circuits, the flash of triumph and satisfaction, and the Force spark flares up again. Luke lets go of this round of light, breathing through the familiar wrenching of his spirit, and then opens his eyes.

  
Sidious stares back, years younger.

  
"Very good, my young apprentice," he says, and Luke offers a shaky smile. Sidious still hasn't let go of his wrists, however, so he knows what's coming. "Now, we must address the matter of my speeder."

  
"Master, I didn't - "

  
Sidious doesn't care. His arms jerk, briefly, and Luke seizes, the pain of a Force-enhanced lightning strike rippling up his arms, through the marrow of his shoulders and spine. His eyes roll back and he seizes, crying out, panting -

  
\- and then it's over.

  
"You understand the value of punishment, Skywalker," says Sidious, "and I will not warn you again. Stay on this base; else you risk not only my wrath, but also my disappointment."

  
"Yes, Master," says Luke, quietly. He keeps his eyes lowered, knowing they are blazing, and thinks again of Tatooine, the planet said to ring with the joy of a million souls freed, of liberation.

  
"I sense there is more." Sidious studies him, and then reaches a hand up to pat Luke's cheek, gently. Luke leans into it despite himself, and nods. "Out with it."

  
"Well, as you know, I turn 18 tomorrow - "

  
"Age does not matter to the Force."

  
"But it matters to me," says Luke, and immediately chastises himself. He knows he sounds childish; his Master won't approve. "I was hoping - because most of my training has been completed - that this year we could go see the podrace on Tatooine? As a birthday present?"

  
Sidious stares into him, silent.

  
Eighteen years is a long time to learn someone's quirks; his Master's were his silences. Luke knew each one of his silences - disappointment, anger, pensiveness, and the rarest - approval - but this one was something he had never heard before. His stomach quirked, unpleasantly; the Force whispered a warning, and Luke realized that Sidious was shocked.

  
"Master?" he says, tentatively, and the Sith Lord steps back.

  
"No," he says.

  
"But why?" demands Luke, with a reserve of bravery he did not know he possessed.

  
Sidious's voice grows deeper and slower in a way that means: danger. "Do not ask foolish questions, young Skywalker. Both Empress and Consort will be in attendance, and you know the stories. I have given you the resources you need."

  
Luke does know the stories. Vader's fearsome massacre of young Force-users; his persecution of the Sith and the Force-users who did not agree with the Empire's philosophy. His saber, which glowed a malicious purple. "We'd be safe, Master. I am skilled enough to defend myself, and if you were with me - "

  
"Enough," says Sidious, and Luke - stops. "Enough," he says again, marginally softer. "I am your Master. I know best. And, young Luke?"

  
"Yes?"

  
"Don't ever ask to leave this station again."

  
*

  
His Master is out again. Luke is repairing the scrubbers for the eighth time this quintant, listening to Artoo whistling to itself. The station is buzzing more resentfully than usual; Luke muses that he may need to ask for another set of stabilizers.

  
Then, there is an almighty crash.

  
Luke jumps and calls for his lightsaber immediately; Artoo warns him that the docking system has been engaged. They're being boarded.

  
"This hunk of junk hasn't been boarded for years," says Luke, quiet and still. "What do you want?"

  
The man who enters is alone. Luke knocks him out with the butt of his lightsaber before he can think about it, and electrocuffs him to a chair.

  
Then, he panics.

  
What is he supposed to do with a - an outlaw, by the looks of it? Sidious would kill him immediately, and Luke doesn't actually want this guy to die, considering the line of his chin implies a heroism and danger both, and against his will, Luke is intrigued.

  
In a moment of surprising self-awareness, Luke considers the nature of this interest, eyes falling unwittingly to the man's plush lips.

  
Ah. So it's _that_ kind.

  
Luke looks away and breathes, because this man's apparent attractiveness does not change the fact that he is probably an assassin sent to find him, or Sidious, or -

  
The guy groans, and wakes.

  
"Chewie? You finally got me, didn't you?" he says, which makes no sense to Luke, so he says, "No, I'm Luke," and immediately regrets it.

  
The man frowns at him. Even his frown is impudent. "I'm Han," he offers, testing his bonds. "Why the kriff am I tied up?"

  
Luke ignites his bright blue lightsaber, and the man's eyes go very wide. With not a little smugness, Luke levels the blade at him. "I know who you are."

  
"Don't trust the wanted posters," says Han, immediately. "The kriffing sketch artists can never get my nose right."

  
"What?" says Luke. Is this guy actually crazy? "You're an assassin. Sent by the crown to find me and kill me."

  
Han blinks. "Uh, no. I'm a smuggler."

  
"So you're a thief," Luke says. "Are you here to kidnap me, then?"

  
"What?" Han is slouching in his chair now, the picture of relaxation. "I have no idea who the fuck you are, kid. I need a place to lay low from General Kenobi, that crazy princess, and her insane Wookie bounty hunter. I'm transporting a not-so-legal pod, Sebulba original, honest. You can check my cargo hold."

  
"I don't believe you," says Luke, with all the authority he can muster. Then, summoning the Force - "You will forget you ever saw me here."

  
"I will - yeah, sure, I can keep quiet. Yeesh, the things people do for privacy - "

  
"No," says Luke, frowning stubbornly. "You will forget you ever saw me here."

  
"I said all right! I couldn't give two - "

  
"Why isn't it working?"

  
"Why isn't what working?"

  
"The Force! Master said I needed more practice - "

  
"Whoa, hold up," says Han, eyes gone wide. "A Force user? You can use the Force?"

  
"Fuck," says Luke, and then covers his mouth. He isn't use to having anything but moving parts to swear at. "Forget I said that too."

  
"Uh-uh, I don't think so. There are only supposed to be a few Force users left - "

  
"Which is why I need to hide - "

  
"Hide? There's an open call for your type! The Empress has this whole training facility, state-of-the-art and better than this dump, for sure - "

  
Luke sits down, abruptly, feeling a bit dizzy, and Han's attitude seems to mellow. "Kid? You all right?"

  
"Sorry," he says, voice too quiet. "I'm, uh, not used to talking to people. You said she trains Force-users?"

  
"Yeah," says Han, slowly. "There's a school the crown founded after that prince died. As a safe haven for all the Force-users killed by the Sith."

  
There isn't enough air in the room; Luke's knuckles whiten around the rough fabric of his pants. "The Sith?"

  
"Yeah, there was this guy who tried to take over or something - he made Lord Vader murder all the Jedi kids who were training then, so he's training new ones as some sort of penance, I don't give two fucks - "

  
He doesn't know what he's going to say - he wants - "I have to talk to them," escapes from his mouth, unbidden. "I - there are more people like me?"

  
Han's expression goes sympathetic. "Look, kid, how about this. I can take you to Tatooine, no farther. If you can swing yourself an invite, I bet the Empress would love to talk to you."

  
"And then I could watch the podrace," says Luke, slowly.

  
"Watch the - " Han gapes, disbelieving. "You've never seen it? Not even on the holo?" Luke shakes his head. "Well then, kid, you're in for a treat. But you're going to need to uncuff me, first."

  
"Swear to me," says Luke. "Swear you'll take me to the podrace and help me see the Empress."

  
Han hesitates, and then breaks into a charming grin. "Sure. I promise."

  
"Then it's a deal," says Luke, and, heart pounding, undoes Han's bonds.

  
*

 

Han's ship is old, scratched, and more creaky than the station after one of Sidious's rages. Luke tells him so and manages to offend Han beyond reason, which means they sit in silence as Han runs system checks, refills his fuel cells, and pokes at the suspicious-looking hyperdrive.

  
"This is going to blow if we try to jump," he says, looking annoyed. "I thought I'd fixed it already, kriffing hell - "

  
"You could bypass the compressor," says Luke, before he can stop himself. Han squints at him, dubious, but then shrugs and sticks his head back under the dashboard.

  
Luke, for his part, doesn't need conversation. "This is more new stuff than I've ever seen in my life," he tells Artoo, who beeps comfortingly. "I've never seen an engine made of duranium before, only durasteel. And did you know other people really do sleep with pillows?"

  
As he's poking through the galley, wondering why Han has mealpacks from Corinth and wondering if Han would notice if he tried one, the ship gives an almighty lurch. He stumbles left, and Han's voice crackles over the comm: "Kid, you did it! Get the hell up here so you can watch the jump!"

  
It's silly, but he _runs_ back to the cockpit, Artoo whirring behind him. He's just in time for Han to pull back a lever, and reality blurs around them, stars leaving streaks across the viewscreen. Luke suspects his mouth is wide open, and Han just chuckles. "Pretty, huh?"

  
"It's beautiful." The Force wells up in him, a comfort and an agreement. "This," says Luke Skywalker, breathing in the taste of freedom, "is the best decision I ever made."

  
*

  
"This is the worst decision I've ever made," Luke whines, facedown in Han's coverlet. The sheets smell like sweat, synthgrease, and sparks, and Luke should probably not be finding it attractive.

  
"Why are you in my bed," says Han, discomfited, and also, "It's too late to turn back now."

  
"It's comfortable," Luke mumbles. "Did you use the Force to make this mattress?"

  
"Have you never slept on pava-down?"

  
"What's pava-down?"

  
Han gives a sigh that is meant to be exasperation but, based on Luke's admittedly keen sense of anger warning signs, is probably just fondness. Luke muffles a smile into the coverlet, already feeling a little happier.

  
(Han might look at the blonde hair mussed wildly over his pillow and feel a whole lot of other things; namely, guilt that he's going to use and then abandon this poor kid. Then again, a bounty lifted with the help of a select Mandalorian and a bona-fide lightsaber is a bounty that won't stick again; and nine Sith-hells, what he wouldn't give to stop jolting awake in the night thinking he sensed wet fur or the creak of a crossbow - )

  
Luke pulls himself up, rolling neatly out of Han's bed, and Han loses his train of thought.

  
*

  
The edges of space are deliciously dark, and yet, Sheev Palpatine feels the whoosh of a familiar, joyful Force presence. Wary, he pulls out his comm. When no one answers, his face doesn't change; but, somewhere on the edges of Wild Space, an abandoned Republic station crumples into itself, its death-throes slow and white-hot.

  
*

  
In the marketplace, Luke has a sudden, shivery panic attack after the third being brushes against him. His breath goes staticky, his hands shake, and his eyes widen like someone has shot him in the chest; Han, recognizing the signs, pulls Luke carefully into the shade of a biswater stall and helps him sit, muttering soothing nonsense and watching for Luke's nod before placing a hand on his shuddering shoulder.

  
" - that's it, kid, breathe with me, in and out, count with me - inhale, two, three, that's it, now out - " Han's other hand is tensed at his side, like he's about to go for his blaster, and he's not sure when or why it got there.

  
An eternity that is perhaps closer to ten minutes later, Luke gives a slight hiccup, and the tension in his coiled trapezius eases, just slightly. Han shifts to rubbing his back, fingertips lingering.

  
"You good?"

  
Luke leans (falls) back against a frichtwood tent pole, and closes his eyes. "Han," he says. The weariness in his voice is a sentence on its own. "I don't think I'm cut out for this."

  
"Don't be ridiculous," says Han, reflexive. His smuggler's instinct is singing: make him stay, make him stay, you need him to lift the bounty; his self-preservation instincts are begging him to scare Luke off so that both of them can get out of this fucked-up roadtrip. A third - one that Han calls his basic sense of decency and doesn't often like to acknowledge - notes that Luke needs something that isn't either a damp Republic station or a Jedi dorm or a spartan Mandalorian training cell. That he deserves more.

  
Han shakes himself and decides to ignore all of them out of sheer irritation. His mouth opens, and strangely, he has no idea what's about to come out. "You've come this far," Han ventures. "Why turn back now?"

  
"It's too much," says Luke. "My Master will kill me, and I'll never - "

  
"You know what?" says Han, determinedly ignoring that Luke's inflection of 'kill me' doesn't make it sound like a figure of speech. "I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

  
"No," says Luke.

  
"Great!" says Han, glib. "I know the perfect place. Quiet, restful - made for nice, upstanding gentlemen like myself. Let's get you a drink, and then you can decide whether you still want to leave."

  
Luke stands up to follow him on unsettled legs, face trusting, and Han prays that he knows what he's doing.

  
*

  
Chalmun's Cantina in Mos Eisley looks - well, Luke doesn't know, exactly - but it seems fine from the outside. Dusty cream, covered with - ugh - sand, just like everything else here, and emitting a vaguely nauseous odor that Luke has discovered is deathstick smoke. It must be a planet-dweller thing, Luke surmises, to not mind the sheer amount of smoke and dirt and sand you get in your clothes planetside; this much grit would gum up the station in less than a varga.

  
"Doing alright, kid?" says Han, bumping his shoulder. Han has been doing this with a very high frequency in the last ten minutes, and he keeps giving Luke these - looks. Like he's afraid Luke might melt into the sand if he turns his back for too long.

  
Luke thinks he should be annoyed. He's always annoyed when Artoo does it, after all; but with Han it seems different, and he's not quite sure why.

  
(He knows exactly why. Denial, however, is the path he's firmly chosen.)

  
"So, kid," says Han, sliding back into their booth and setting twin glasses of something smoking in front of them. "Whaddya think?"

  
Luke gingerly unsticks his elbow from the table. "It's...nice."

  
"If you can't survive this place," says Han, looking concerned, "then maybe you don't belong out here, y'know?"

  
Han's fingers are restless, brushing the table, tapping the chair. "Where else would I go, then?" asks Luke. "I can't go back now."

  
"Well, there is this bounty - "

  
With an almighty crash, the table shakes, Luke's drink pitches forward, and Luke misses the end of Han's sentence. An enormous green Rodian looms in front of him, staring at the smoking spill across the table, and Luke shrinks back.

  
The Rodian and Luke consider each other. The Rodian leans in, wafting metallic breath over Luke's face, and says, "I don't like your face."

  
"I'm sorry," says Luke automatically.

  
"Greedo!" says Han. His voice is cajoling, but his hand is tight on the hilt of his blaster. "What brings you to this lovely establishment?"

  
The Rodian - Greedo - makes several angry noises in what must be the Tatooine Huttese pidgin. Han responds, glibly, lounging like he owns the place, but Luke sees Greedo's hand go for his blaster and doesn't think - he just jumps.

  
Two blasters greet him, pointed squarely at his face. "Move, kid," growls Han, and Greedo buzzes with angry agreement.

  
"Come on, guys," says Luke, desperately. He looks at Greedo. "Look, I don't know what your issue with Han is, but I need him to take me to the Boonta Eve race tomorrow. You can do whatever you want with him after - "

  
"Hey!"

  
" - but please, just cool it for now, okay?" Greedo doesn't look convinced, and Luke huffs a petulant sort of sigh. "Come on," he says. "Haven't you ever had a dream?"

  
Greedo looks at him with his large Rodian eyes, and lowers the blaster, slowly. "I had a dream, once."

  
*

  
Palpatine sighs as the sweet, drugging pull of Luke's bright Force-presence hums with proximity. He should have known; of course the brat would skip town only for something so insignificant as a podrace - and of course he would wander, blithely and arrogantly ignorant of the many sets of prying eyes.

  
The sole question - which Palpatine has yet to answer - is how.

  
He flexes his Force-fingers, grasping, stroking at threads of probability. Luke: there, a deep well in the center, emanating light; next to him, a presence that was dull and ordinary - the pathetic soul who must have aided his escape. More interesting are the threads that connect the two of them - bright and untouchable with the beginnings of love.

  
Palpatine lets his inhuman face stretch into a satisfied, teeth-baring smile, and begins to plan.

  
*

  
"If you could put those damn Wookie senses to better use for once, Chewie, we wouldn't have lost them in the tunnels," says Leia Amidala, a woman who, while Princess Supreme and Heir Apparent to the Empiric Throne ordinarily, is at this moment unfortunately relegated to bounty-hunter duty.

  
"Aarrgh," says Chewie. He's right, as usual. None of this is his fault, but rather Fett's, since the useless Mandalorian sack of shit couldn't do the Force-damned job the Empire had paid him for, and Father hadn't listened to Leia's recommendations that they use Wren instead.

  
"Aaurgh," says Chewie, this time insistent, and Leia huffs.

  
"Fine, yes, I shouldn't have yelled at Father - "

  
"Arrrg-"

  
" - and definitely not at my mother," she continues, irritably, "but it's still not my fault we're here."

  
Chewie huffs, which means, very clearly, it doesn't matter whose fault it was, considering that we still lost Solo at the cantina.

  
"At least we know he has help. Have you got an I.D. on the other guy? Or the droid?"

  
Chewie fiddles with a holoprojector; then, with a triumphant growl, he presents a shimmering schematic of the droid they had seen, rotating slowly.

  
"A Nabooan R-2 unit?" Leia muses. "Interesting."

  
There are very few people left who can answer questions about droid mechanics on Old Naboo; accordingly, Leia digs her comm out of her belt, sets it on a nearby rock, at waist height, and presses to project.

  
In a moment, a forbidding figure rises into view, clothed in deep black robes. "My daughter," intones the deep voice of Anakin Skywalker, Darth Vader, Emperor Consort of the Known Galaxy. "I trust this is important."

  
"Hello, Father," says Leia, cheerily. "Of course it's important. Although - " and here she can't resist - "I wouldn't need to be calling if you'd had the courtesy of listening to me."

  
"If you've commed simply to argue - "

  
"I haven't."

  
"Then where is Solo?"

  
Leia sighs, deeply. "We lost him."

  
"What?"

  
"Not for long," Leia assures him. "But Chewie and I found something that doesn't fit. That's why I've commed you. Do you know where Solo could have picked up a Republic-era Nabooan R-2 unit?"

  
Her father's vaguely menacing stillness, which had meant he was still upset with her, dissolves utterly into shock; his presence in the Force burns abruptly into an intense focus.

  
"Father," says Leia, carefully. "What's wrong?"

  
Anakin considers her in return. "Comm your mother," he says, finally. "She should hear this from you." He seems to hesitate; then - "Was Solo alone?"

  
"No," says Leia. "How did you - " She stops, shakes her head. "You know him. The other man."

  
"I do not dare hope," says Anakin, and Leia's stomach drops in shock.

  
"You mean - " she breaks off.

  
"Yes," says Anakin, gravely. His voice shakes. "Tell Padme," he repeats, and shimmers out of view.

  
*

  
Han wins a room for the night off an angry Toydarian through a combination of luck, an excellent sabacc face, and his uncanny knack for counting cards, something Luke describes as "obviously Force-sensitivity, Han" and Han describes as "practice." He's gritty and exhausted, and suspects Luke feels much the same - their escape from the Wookie bounty hunter had involved an angry bantha, a Twi'lek headdress, and a whole kriffin' lot of sand.

  
Yeah. It would be best not to ask.

  
So, when Luke stops blankly in the doorway, staring at the snug queen in the corner of the room with his shoulders tensed nearly up to his ears, Han takes pity on him.

  
"Go ahead, kid," he says, gesturing to the bed. "I've got a bedroll."

  
"No," says Luke, squaring his shoulders bravely. "It's alright, you can take it. I don't - "

  
"Luke," says Han. "I've had it worse. It's not so bad."

  
"So have I," Luke counters. "Come on, we can at least share."

  
Han's entire subconscious perks up at that, which he chooses not to examine too closely. "Fine," he agrees easily, which makes Luke's eyes go a little wide in surprise. "But you wake me up in the middle of the night and I'm kicking you to the floor, kid, you got that? No freezing like you've been hit with carbonite if our arms brush or something."

  
Luke is more perceptive than Han likes to give him credit for, which means he just says, "I don't mind when it's you."

  
Han ignores this. "I'm hitting the sonic first. Put something over the window and check for loiterers outside - we can't risk the Wookie catching up with us again."

  
When Han gets out of the sonic, feeling much less gritty and much more sleepy, Luke is levitating, cross-legged, in the corner of the room.

  
Han's tranquility dissolves. "Uh...kid?" he asks, voice unnaturally steady. "That a Force thing?" Luke opens his eyes; they seem to glow a warm, blazing blue for a moment before fading to normal.

  
"Don't freak out," says Luke, looking concerned.

  
"I'm not," Han says blankly.

  
Luke examines him, dubious. "I was just meditating," he says, voice a bit dreamy. "You sure you're all right?" At Han's nod, Luke stands up and slips into the washroom. The door, as far as Han can tell, he closes with the Force.

  
The hum of the sonic starts up, and several minutes pass, in which Han is unable to move. "Holy _kriffing_ hell," he says, finally. His mouth is gaping unflatteringly, and his knees are weak; he sinks down onto the bedspread. "What the fuck - "

  
"You're freaking out," says Luke, matter-of-fact; the door to the sonic closes behind him. He's changed into a loose white Tatooine outfit, giving him a gawky farmboy look that Han shouldn't find as adorable as he does.

  
"I'm getting used to it," says Han. He kicks off his boots, leans back against the wall. "What's the deal, anyway? How'd you end up on an old space station if you've got Force training?"

  
Luke's face shutters, slightly. "It's... a long story." He climbs up on the bed, ungraceful, and draws his knees up to his chest, looking oddly young. "When I was a baby, Master said that I was so Force-sensitive that people could - sense me, I guess. It was so dangerous at that time for Force-sensitives - with the Jedi Purge, and the persecution of the Sith, that he fled to the Outer Rim, and then to Deep Space. He raised me there. To keep me safe."

  
"Doesn't sound like that," says Han, a little angry on Luke's behalf. "It sounds like prison. It was war, you know? Didn't mean things couldn't get better eventually."

  
"He just cared about keeping me safe," Luke replies, musing. "I don't think that's so bad."

  
Han frowns. "You keep saying that. Listen, I can't speak for you, kid, but this guy sounds like an ass. He never let you outside, which is completely banthashit, and he makes you call him Master - "

  
"It's a traditional form of address," says Luke, reflexive.

  
"Sure," says Han, "but there's a reason that they outlawed the word as a title on Tatooine, you know?"

  
Luke pales; his gaze skitters away, to the rumpled bedspread, and Han kicks himself. Normally he's smarter than this - there was no need to push so hard -

  
"Well," says Luke, clearing his throat, "what's your story?"

  
Han is relieved enough that he doesn't even hesitate. "I'm a smuggler. I didn't lie about that."

  
"Why do you do it?"

  
"Why else?" Han laughs. "Good money in it, and good people, too, if you know what you're doing." He nudges Luke with his shoulder, and Luke smiles, abruptly, and brightly. Han thinks, oh no.

  
He clears his throat. "I started in the business years ago; I've had a bounty on my head, and that Wookie on my ass, almost as long. Sometimes I think we're almost friends, considering I saved his life once."

  
"Really." Luke is laughing a little, rolling his eyes.

  
"Really! Otherwise I mostly do small parts; I smuggle all sorts of illegal stuff in for the podrace. Keeps things interesting."

  
"And for you?" Luke asks.

  
"What?"

  
"Is it interesting?"

  
"Well, you know," says Han, avoiding Luke's eyes. Luke just waits for him to speak. "Avoiding Imperial officers, hacking for landing codes, the whole drill. Sometimes I do medical or ration runs to the Bothan or Mid-Rim Warzones, if I'm too bored."

  
"Of course you do," says Luke, on the apex of a yawn. The lines around his eyes are infinitely more relaxed, especially compared to what they'd been this morning; the look in his eyes, when he looks at Han, is a little too close to fondness. Han abruptly remembers the Mandalorians, and feigns a stretch.

  
"Well, if you're satisfied, I'm gonna tap out," he says, shuffling into the thin coverlet. It parts with a dry whispering sound in the still night air. "Goodnight, Luke."

  
Luke lies down next to him, his warmth suffusing the already-hot room. "Goodnight, Han," he says, and Han finds he doesn't seem to mind.

  
*

  
Luke jolts awake.

  
Not physically, of course; the horribly familiar Force-presence outside forces his breathing into a steady rhythm, his hands into calm stillness, by sheer force of habit. His tongue feels numb, arms heavy, stomach sick, and Luke makes himself take a careful breath. After all, he had never intended to run away forever.

  
Had he?

  
It doesn't matter. Luke slips out of the bed, down the hall, and out the door into the still street. There is no one there but a dark figure in a robe. Against the red, sandy ground, he seems like a shadow of inevitability, of death.

  
"Hello, Master," says Luke. He does not know what to expect; he has never transgressed this unforgiveably before. He realizes, suddenly, that he is desperately afraid.

  
"Young Skywalker," says Sidious. Luke braces himself, but nothing comes. "Not quite," he says, the undercurrent of dark amusement to his voice. Then - "Luke," he says, softer. It has come to my attention that I have failed you."

  
"Master?" Luke can't make himself feel anything, at these words.

  
"I have sheltered you," says Sidious. "I have done my utmost to keep you safe. Have I not?"

  
"You have, Master."

  
"Yet here you are. Out in the cruel world, believing yourself safe. I have told you of the dangers, but you do not have faith enough to trust me; thus, somehow, I must have failed you."

  
The Sith regards him. "You may attend the race," he says, before Luke can think of a denial. "Enjoy yourself, even with this feckless halfwit you call your companion, whom you have begun to feel for - " Luke opens his mouth, futilely - " - do not dare deny it."

  
Luke shuts his mouth.

  
"Yet, young Skywalker, I care for you as if you were my own, and so I cannot let you go without this final warning. It may interest you to know that there is a very particular Mandalorian general, who offers favors that are quite expansive - including, say, dissolving formal New Republic bounties - in exchange for something very rare. Would you like to guess what that is?"

  
Luke shakes his head.

  
"A lightsaber," says Sidious, watching impassively as Luke's flinches, almost imperceptibly. "Yes, Luke. He is using you."

  
"He wouldn't," Luke protests, but it's weak.

  
"I am your Master, Luke," says Sidious, "and one day, you will learn that I know best. If you are so certain, then do not come weeping to me." He reaches out a hand - Luke flinches, visibly this time - and then, with a crackle, he is gone.

  
*

  
The day of the race dawns restless and bright, hot and dusty, as per the Tatooine standard; beings everywhere stumble, most still drunk, out of bars and inns and off the sides of the street, towards the Boonta Stadium.

  
Leia and Chewie watch the crowd from above the Empress's box. Leia's dangling her legs over the railing, bounty-hunter helmet nestled close by her side, and Chewie's sweeping the crowd through the scope of his crossbow.

  
"Aaargh," says Chewie, and Leia laughs.

  
"Yeah, right, you bumbling nerfherder. My money's on Bridger, easy."

  
"Arrgggh," Chewie replies, bumping her hard enough to nearly send her flying.

  
"Hey, watch it," she says. "And no, I don't need to put in an appearance until later. Our dear Empress and Consort are here; no one's going to notice if we don't - "

  
She trails off, and several things happen at once: the Force prickles warningly, in the precise center of Leia's back; Chewie ruffles his fur, startled, and Leia turns around.

  
In the shadow of the high wall is a man, looking as though he has been watching them. He wears the burgundy suit of an Old Republic senator or banker with ease; his features are smooth, but his presence in the Force is strangely muted, a relic of immense experience.

  
Leia immediately distrusts him.

  
"Can I help you?" she asks, softening her Coruscanti accent into a deliberately Huttese drawl. The man chuckles, amiable.

  
"I rather think the opposite," he says. "I understand you are looking for the smuggler Han Solo?"

  
"Among other things, yes."

  
"It may interest you to know, then, that he has attempted to make contact with Mandalore's rebel faction - perhaps looking to relieve his bounty."

  
Leia surveys him. "And you know this, how, exactly?"

  
"My network of benefactors is extensive," says the man, shrugging easily. "I work with galactic suppliers - I'm sure you understand."

  
"You deal arms," says Leia, carefully. She still doesn't recognize his face, which means she doesn't believe him in the slightest. "And for this little favor, you want what, exactly? Forged transport permits? A conveniently malleable customs officer?"

  
The man laughs. "I wouldn't expect that much trust, my dear. Consider it a show of faith."

  
"A show of faith. In that case, who exactly are you?"

  
He regards her. "Who are you?" he asks, and she tilts her head, conceding the point.

  
"Feel free to continue your investigation," he says, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgement. "However, I look forward to our partnership." Leia snorts, almost unintentionally, and he glides smoothly back towards the stands.

  
Chewie huffs incredulously, and Leia nods. "I don't trust him either," she says, "but it's worth checking out. Focus your sweep on the south boxes - I'll canvas the crowds from the ground. Comm if you see anything."

  
"Arrgh," says Chewie, petulant, and a bit mothering. Leia smiles at him fondly.

  
"Don't worry," she says. "I always am."

  
*

  
In a close, hot room in Mos Eisley, race-day begins much earlier; Luke may return to bed shivering, blank-eyed, and Han may pull him roughly closer, holding tightly, and they may awaken with their legs entangled and skin stuck together and never say a word about it.

  
Now, however, the morning is less pleasant; Han is pacing restlessly, and Luke's degritting Artoo's circuits of all the blasted sand, pretending he's just tucked his lightsaber deep into his robes for - say, safekeeping, rather than out of mistrust.

  
"Damn it!" growls Han. "He's missed the rendezvous. That damned Princess - he must have heard we're being followed, and flaked. We need to go, now."

  
Luke follows him obligingly to a darkened alley, watching him draw his blaster. "Is that really necessary?"

  
"Doesn't matter," says Han. "What the hell are we going to do with this pod now? I registered it, which means I'm taking the fine if he doesn't show up to race it - "

  
"I can do it," Luke says.

  
Han stares at him.

  
"I know how they're engineered," Luke continues, unable to stop himself. "I have great reflexes, too - I bet I could even do repairs mid-flight - "

  
Han puts a heavy hand on his shoulder, which makes Luke stammer to a halt. "No," says Han.

  
"Han, I've wanted this my whole - "

  
"I said no. It's my pod, you know."

  
"But what about the fine - "

  
"I don't care about some - some fine if you're gonna die, kid," Han growls, quiet and sincere and angry. Luke's voice dies in his throat.

  
"I won't die," Luke says. "You wouldn't let me."

  
Han's eyes skitter left of his face, and there is a moment of silence. "I doubt they even take late entries," is what he says, finally, and Luke feels himself smile for the first time since - well. "But we'll check, how about that?"

  
"Yeah," says Luke, the middle of his chest curiously light. "Let's."

  
*

  
The holding area underneath the Boonta stadium is crowded and noisy, excitable buzzing at pitches both audible to the human ear and not combining seamlessly to give Han a headache. He looks back at Luke and grimaces; reaching, he detaches the smooth flipper of a particularly forward Mon Calamar from Luke's arm.

  
"Thanks," says Luke. His eyes are wide and his breathing is shallow - overstimulation; but, his demeanor is a bit glassy, almost reflective: he's retreated into the Force for stability.

  
Why, thinks Han, do I know all of this?

  
"I've put her here," he says, as the pod comes into view. He can't help grinning at the look on Luke's face, at the duranium engines, stabilizers rigged with ion repulsors, the engine with tremotite-plasma power couplings. "She's called the Rogue."

  
"Did you build this?" Luke's face is still slack with wonder. He reaches out a tentative hand, rests it against the side of the pod.

  
"Nah," says Han. "There's a little place in the Outer Rim where I get 'em. Not, say, strictly legal, but - "

  
"You would have raked in the credits for this thing," Luke says, grinning at him. "I'll try not to crash it."

  
"Kid, I have to warn you." Han shifts, a bit uncomfortable. "Pods aren't actually made for poor bastards with only four limbs."

  
"I know," says Luke, as though this solves the problem. Han suspects his face is priceless, because Luke laughs. The sound tugs inevitably at his throat; Han swallows, hard.

  
Luke seems to study him, briefly, but then lets it by. "I'll just use the Force. It will guide me."

  
"To a win?"

  
"Ha," says Luke. "Why not?" He turns to the pod, eyes far away, and places a hand on the side of the engine. Han waits. Luke says nothing.

  
"Of course," mutters Han. "He's communing with the blasted thing."

  
Han leaves him to it. The only real favor he can do Luke, at this point, is size up his competition. To his left is the Mon Calamar from earlier with a sleek pod - is that Togrutan webbing? - in that case, he's going to tear up in the slot canyon; there are a few Bothans, the odd Utapaite, with their wildly innovative pods that usually don't last through the third lap; but the majority of racers are Tatooine natives, old veterans who've been doing this for years. Then, of course, front and center - the Empress's star Force-sensitive of the season.

  
Han ambles over, ready to investigate, but is derailed by the touch of armor to his vest. He springs, almost immediately, kicking out, drawing his blaster, and judo-throwing the Mandalorian over his hip.

  
"Fuck off," he says, pointing the gun squarely at the Mandalorian's helmet.

  
The soldier raises their brightly-colored gauntlets in the air, tentative; Han safeties but doesn't holster his blaster. The helmet is pulled off to reveal a woman with colorful, short hair, sparkling black eyes, and a crooked twist of mischief to her mouth.

  
"You know what you're doing with that?" she says, looking entirely unconcerned by the loaded weapon aimed at her chest. She opens her hand to reveal his blaster's power pack, and grins.

  
"How - " says Han, and trails off. He likes her, immediately and without reserve. "Damn," he says, finally. "You know, I'm hiring."

  
She chuckles, and hands him the power pack. "Sorry, I'm mostly going straight these days."

  
Han notes the array of chemicals at her belt. "Munitions and bounty hunting, hell. You sure?"

  
"Yeah," she says. "But I did want to ask you - the Falcon is yours, right?"

  
"Maybe. Why?"

  
"Some guy poking around. I was tagging the side - "

  
"What? Don't you dare graffiti my - "

  
"Too late," she says. "And unimportant. I saw him sabotaging your thrusters. Better get over there."

  
Han crosses his arms over his chest. "And you're telling me this, why?"

  
"The goodness of my heart," she says, immediately. Han's eyebrows scale his forehead. "Fine. I've got a shipment of Utraxan hornbill coming in to Bespin, pretty small. I'm sure you can get it over for me."

  
"I'm not a fan of Cloud City," says Han.

  
She shrugs. "All the same to me. In that case, you can owe me one. Later, Solo."

  
She's gone before Han realizes he doesn't know her name. "Blast it," he says, pushing through the crowd, looking for Luke.

  
"Hi," says Luke, when Han is within earshot. He's bent over the pod, not looking at him, shoulders tense. "Who were you talking to?"

  
"No one," says Han. Luke fingers tighten, briefly, on the wrench; he doesn't reply. Han lays a hand on his shoulder, reassuring. "Listen, it's just that I've gotta run to the Falcon. I heard someone's been poking around."

  
Luke's face pinches. "You all right?" Han asks.

  
"You'll miss starting line," says Luke, not answering.

  
"I know, kid," Han replies, genuinely regretful. He puts a hand on Luke's shoulder. "But I'll be back before you know it."

  
"Okay." Luke's back is stiff.

  
"Are you sure - "

  
"It's fine. Go."

  
"Don't go," says a new voice. "What kind of boyfriend misses starting line?" This, from a bright-eyed boy in a sleek brown Jedi tunic, a pilot's vest, and a helmet with the Empire's crest. He has a bright blue undercut - Lothalite, probably - and is tall and lanky, leaning back comfortably against Luke's pod.

  
"He's not," says Luke, body language opening up. "He's a friend. Ezra, meet Han." Han bristles, but the man seems almost amused.

  
"Ezra," he says, putting out a gloved hand to shake. His grip is firm, assured, with the ease of a warrior, and Han scowls a little.

  
Ezra, somehow, correctly interprets Han's expression. "Jedi hands," he says, almost apologetic. "Happens, when you spend your whole days handling swords." His voice dips, unmistakably suggestive, at the end of the sentence.

  
Luke's smile is reserved, but his eyes are bright. "A podrace isn't like a training form. You need - "

  
"Good instincts? Finger dexterity?" Ezra wiggles his eyebrows, and a flush makes its way down the back of Luke's neck.

  
"More than boasting," says Luke. He lifts his chin, staring Ezra down. Damn, thinks Han grumpily, if it isn't endearing. And also, hot.

  
"Fair enough," says the Jedi. He puts out a hand, clasps Luke's arm; it doesn't escape Han's notice that Luke lingers, just slightly. "Good luck. May the Force be with you."

  
"May the Force be with you," Luke replies, and watches him leave. Then, quietly - "That's the first time I've been able to say that to someone else. Other than - him."

  
"Great for you, kid," and then, because Han can't shut up, "good to see you making friends."

  
Luke pales. "I can speak to whoever I want," he says. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

  
"I never said you couldn't." Han's voice rises, slightly. Luke doesn't reply, and so, with an angry, virulent pit in his stomach, Han leaves.

  
*

  
"Princess," calls a brisk voice. "What's the rush this time?"

  
Leia, a consummate, professionally trained Force-user and diplomat, cannot control the way her face flushes or her heartrate increases or her stomach drops. She takes a breath. "Wren," she says, steady. "Causing trouble, as usual?"

  
There's a quiet little smirk playing around Sabine's lips; Leia reminds herself to keep her gaze away from her mouth.

  
Sabine doesn't look fooled in the slightest by her nonchalance. "You know me," she says. "By the way - Solo's headed back toward the Falcon, as promised. You're welcome."

  
Leia rolls her eyes. "And what do I owe you for this, I wonder?"

  
Sabine flicks a corner of bright hair from her eyes. "After Ezra wins, we're having an afterparty as the Cantina. Stop by."

  
"Stop by? That's all?"

  
"Not all, I hope," says Sabine, voice lilting.

  
Leia feels hot, but it's Tatooine; that's normal. She clears her throat. "Of course. Now if you'll excuse me - "

  
Sabine stops her with a hand on her shoulder, and a wink. "Good luck."

  
*

  
Luke's hands are shaking with tension.

  
He loves flying. He loves it. He knows this. But -

  
\- he's truly _here_ , in the starting line of the Empire Podrace, in a dusty pod that smells strongly of synthgrease and plasma smoke and feels indescribably, vibrantly real under his fingertips; he can feel each and every Force-presence of each and every being in the crowd.

  
This is his chance - the chance has always longed for - and Luke wants nothing more than to throw up.

  
Sidious's face floats in front of him, hazy; he can feel his nerves jumping, anticipating a strike of electricity. He shouldn't - shouldn't be here. He should - never have left.

  
_Hey_ , says a voice, thrumming lowly at the core of him. _Breathe_.

  
Ezra. It must be, though neither of them can see the other. _Thank you_ , he thinks, fervently, and knows Ezra hears it.

  
He retreats into the Force. It cradles him, warps time away from him. This, his Master has never been able to touch.

  
He wishes Han were here.

  
(He wishes Han weren't working with Mandalore.)

  
Luke comes back to himself, a bit, and realizes that Artoo is beeping, reassuring. He curls his fingers around the controls, runs the tip of his pinky finger across the switches. He knows this machine inside and out; the modifications Han installed and the engine Han tweaked and the couplings that Han has uncoupled, and recoupled, with the care and deftness that Han pretends he doesn't have. He wishes Han would touch him that way: encompassing, knowing, intense.

  
The lights blink, signalling the beginning. They count downwards in Huttese and Aurabesh both; the roar and tumult of the crowd is distant white noise, filling the space between his ears.

  
Luke Skywalker curls his hands around the ignition cables, and sparks the pod.

  
The numbers hit zero.

  
He flies.

  
*

  
Pods crackle and snap and crash in the carnage of starting line. Nine escape unscathed: four Tatooine natives, a Mon Calamar, two Bothans, and two Force-users.

-

Elsewhere, Leia Amidala raises her blaster and points it squarely at the back of the notorious smuggler Solo; he raises his hands slowly, and turns around.

-

The two Bothans nudge each other into the grooves of a slot canyon, daring each other into tighter and tighter turns. Then - out of nowhere - a Tatooine ship's coupler fails; it sparks, spins, and plows the three of them into a solid rock face.

-

"Hands where I can see them, Solo."

  
"Back the hell off, sweetheart."

  
Leia nods, and Chewie fires a bolt from his crossbow, winding around Han's feet in a flash of ionized coil.

-

Two more pilots die in fiery, toxic crashes.

  
The crowd cheers.

-

From his pod, Ezra Bridger frowns as the Rogue nudges the side of his right engine; sparks fly, and he reaches with the Force into the mechanics of the Ghost, spiralling sharply upwards. The Rogue follows, effortless; he hears a loud, ecstatic whoop, and can't help but laugh.

-

Together, Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi tense, hands reaching to their hips, lightsabers igniting with a touch.

  
"He's here," says Skywalker. "That evil - _thing_."

  
"Keep your head," says Kenobi, but his knuckles are white.

-

"This newcomer seems like a Force-user, folks! We haven't seen flying like that in decades - looks like the Rogue is the pod to watch, going into the last lap!"

  
Anakin Skywalker frowns, turns toward the viewscreen. The pod called the Rogue spins upwards, sliding sideways through a canyon, and the two remaining Tatooine ships tailing him collide messily.

  
The blood drains very abruptly from his face, and he _knows_.

  
The hand on his shoulder is reassuring in its weight, its familiarity. "I will watch over him," says Obi-Wan. "Go, Anakin."

-

"Wait, you're not arresting me? And she's working for you?"

  
"Other way around," says Sabine, cleaning her gun.

  
"Where is the man you were with? The blonde one?" demands Leia, impatient.

  
"Why?" says Han, tensing.

  
"None of your business."

  
"Really sounds like none of yours, sweetheart."

  
"He's her brother," Sabine says, and Leia's heart stops. Sabine is watching her face, carefully. "Isn't that right?"

  
Leia's throat closes. "Yes."

  
Han looks like someone has clubbed him with the blunt end of a blaster. "But then - he would be - "

  
"Yes," says Leia. "Where is he?"

  
"Racing," says Han. Her face goes wide, slack with shock. "I'm sorry."

-

The Ghost is ahead of him, still; the Rogue's fuel is running on its last nitro fumes, and the sharps of Beggar's Canyon have reduced his left coupling to smoking flak.

  
Luke feels as though he knows these canyons like his station, like Artoo, like breathing.

  
He knows his limping pod will not survive the last lap.

  
It drops suddenly, jerking left, and Luke fights for control. He thinks he can sense Palpatine, watching him struggle; watching him fail.

  
Suddenly, there is a voice. Calm and focused, quiet and powerful.

  
_Use the Force, Luke._

  
Luke tightens his fingers on the transfer rods of his right coupling.

  
_Luke. Let go._

  
His fingers release the lever. The ionizing radiation jumps and balances between his two couplings, and he bursts ahead of the Ghost.

-

"Get out of the way," Han snarls. "What's with the crowd?"

  
"He won," Sabine breathes, awed. "That little shrimp did it."

  
Leia has stripped to reveal a blindingly white gown that shimmers of royalty. "Stand aside," she yells, powerful, and they run.

-

Luke has only just tripped out of his pod, legs shaking, grinning blindingly, when something warm slams into him; an arm around his shoulder, a firm chest, and there's Han, grinning right back at him, face ecstatic.

  
"You did it, kid!" he cries. "You did it!" Luke looks up at him; their gazes catch, collide; one of them moves first, and they're kissing.

  
Han's mouth is warm against his, the hand cradling the side of his face tender and a bit sweaty. Luke's heart stops and restarts, over and over and endlessly; the crowd is deafening, but Han is all he can feel.

  
The Force blossoms to accommodate his joy, his love, singing tautly through him; Luke's vision goes white, briefly, and at last, he sees the Light, away from the spectre of Sidious, as he never has before.

  
*

  
The race officials take Luke to a holding area before Han can do much more than kiss him once; he very briefly considers causing a scene, but Sabine's hand in the back of his jacket stops him short.

  
Then he remembers the princess. "What, didn't want to say hi?"

  
She won't meet his eyes, the line of her jaw strong and tense. "I will," she says, and leaves it that.

  
Sabine swings her arm around each of their shoulders, typing rapidly on her comm at the same time. "When your boy gets out, we're heading to the Cantina."

  
"No," say Han and Leia, together.

  
"It wasn't a question," says Sabine, already walking. "Ezra's meeting us there. We can head to my ship in the meantime. I can show you what real speed mods look like, Solo."

  
"Oh, fuck off," he says, but doesn't follow her. He has a bad feeling; he wants to wait for Luke.

  
Sabine turns. "You coming?"

  
Han considers - tries to remember. Leia and Sabine might have good intentions, but neither are trustworthy; and what about the Empress? - the poor kid had seemed -

  
\- terrified -

  
 - and his brain feels slow, wading through a sea of inky quietude; Han knows he should struggle; he's forgetting something important, but - overwhelmingly and pointedly and suddenly, it doesn't seem to matter.

  
"Yeah," he says. The feeling passes, and he turns, gait unsteady. "Let's go."

  
*

  
Luke stands alone on a dusty ground, crowned king of a planet of freedom, hair golden in the twin sunlight.

  
He doesn't need to contemplate whether it matters. The sun fades, and he knows it does not.

  
"You have surprised me, young Skywalker," says a voice, calm and gritty and horribly, horribly, familiar.

  
Luke's knees weaken as Sidious's Force presence eclipses his own; after the time away, he can recognize its greedy, ageless hunger, mourn the way the Force feels heavier, slower to the touch.

  
"Master," he says, too blank for resignation. His mouth is dry.

  
"Luke," says Sidious. Luke looks up, meets his gaze. It is so rare that Sidious calls him by his name.

  
"Yes, Master?"

  
"Where is the smuggler?"

  
Luke closes his eyes, though he doesn't need to. Concentrates, follows the Force threads branching from his heart, and finds what he already knew.

  
"On the Mandalorian's ship." At hearing the words aloud, his heart sinks, and he shudders out a shaky breath.

  
The Sith's face is wizened and sympathetic. "My apprentice," he says, holding out his arms. "My dear boy. Come here."

  
Luke goes.

  
"I have found another home for us," says Sidious, quietly. "Somewhere we truly cannot be found, beyond Wild Space. We are to travel there, and you will continue your training. With time, I will forgive this error. Do you understand?"

  
"Yes, Master," says Luke, listlessly. Sidious's eyes sharpen, slightly. "Thank you, Master," he adds, to be safe.

  
Luke holds his gaze for several long seconds; he cannot think of anything else to say. Whatever Sidious sees must satisfy him. He takes Luke's arm, and leads him behind the hangar, towards Mos Eisley, towards a ship, towards the recessed time-pockets of Wild Space - towards home.

  
*

  
When he feels Luke's presence suddenly flare, and then diminish, he knows, and he begins to run, robes billowing.

  
"Father," says Leia, her gaze hard. "We've found him."

  
"No," says Anakin Skywalker, Darth Vader, Emperor Consort and shaken father. "He is gone."

  
"What?"

  
"He has him. He has Luke."

  
"Father - you mean - "

  
"Move," Anakin barks. "A ship, quickly."

  
"Let me go after him," says the smuggler. He looks earnest and belligerent at once; Anakin lights his saber almost reflexively. The smuggler startles, pulls his blaster; with a sense of cool detachment, Anakin blocks the bolt and pulls the blaster out of his hand.

  
Leia is smirking, just slightly. She knows, then, that he is impressed.

  
"Damn Jedi," says the smuggler, shoulders tense.

  
Anakin borrows words that are not his own when he says, "I am no Jedi."

  
The smuggler rolls his eyes. "I guess we'll all take mine, then," he says, and leads the hasty way to a rusty Corellian light freighter.

  
Anakin sets his palm on the side. "Is she fast?"

  
"She's smart," says Han. "Made the Kessel Run in just 12 parsecs."

  
"That will do," says Anakin. He allows himself a small smile. "But I'm flying."

  
*

  
"Leia," says her father. "The gunners."

  
Solo seems intensely put out that they've shunted him out of the pilot's seat of his own ship; Leia pushes past his angrily pointed finger, sprinting towards the gunnery and jamming her hair into a headset.

  
"Of course I would find you in the least spaceworthy ship in the hangar," says a voice over the comms, amusement glimmering beneath its calm facade.

  
"Obi-Wan," says her father. "Now is not the time."

  
There is a sudden commotion; a droid, warbling and zapping and, if Leia's Republic droidspeak is still up to par, cursing vociferously.

  
"Is that - "

  
"Artoo!" says her father. "Artoo, come on, you haven't forgotten me, have you?"

  
Leia's hands stall on the switches. She has never heard him sound so - young. Undone, almost, with joy, and disbelief.

  
"That's the droid," she says, after taking a moment to steady her voice. "The one I told you about. It's R2-D2?"

  
"Yeah," says Anakin. "Ow! Get off, you know me!" He clears his throat. "Yes, it's him. I believe he will lead us to Luke." A metallic clinking sounds over the line. "I have his backup drive - here - hold _still_ \- "

  
The droid starts up, beeping in confusion, and suddenly settles. He makes a long, warbling noise, and inserts himself into the ship's port.

  
"Luke," Leia translates, unnecessarily. "Artoo, take us to him."

  
*

  
Han Solo stands in the dirt, watching his ship fly away without him.

  
"Those kriffing bastards," he says, mostly out of habit.

  
"Aaarrgh," growls the Wookie, next to him.

  
"Yeah," says Han. "I know. Now are we going after them, or what?"

  
*

  
They stop to refuel in the shadow of a collapsed dwarf star. Sidious carefully mines the dying sun's energy into the shuttle's fuel packs.

  
Luke stares at the sputtering mass. Here, then, was the fundamental truth of the Force: Everything dies. Even the stars burn out.

  
Darth Sidious, he knew, fed on that inevitability, on hopelessness, on despair; his Force presence took and took endlessly. Luke - well, he supposed he was the opposite. He took the humming potential around him and within him and made it Light, and every time it felt like hunger, like starving. Sometimes, he wondered whether Sidious had once been like him; whether he had starved for so long that he'd had enough, and begun to feast instead.

  
But -

  
 - kissing Han hadn't felt like that; neither had winning the podrace. He had felt infinite - surrounded and contained at once, cradled and luminous, as much a part of the Force as it was a part of him.

  
Luke closes his eyes, weary.

  
Suddenly, a prickle of warning spills hotly down his back; across the bridge, Sidious's Force presence settles into something Luke has never before felt: anticipation for battle.

  
"What is it, Master?" he asks. His lightsaber is in his hand, unlit.

  
"Engage the thrusters," says Sidious, shortly.

  
"Are we being followed?"

  
"Do it."

  
They are both unsettled. Luke closes the fuel ports, tunes the compressor, lights the hyperdrive, with a touch of the Force. His hand hovers over the thrusters to disengage from orbit -

  
 - and he _stops_ -

  
"You imbecile," says Sidious. "Move."

  
 - so quiet, if he could just -

  
"What are you doing?"

  
 - a bit closer -

  
"No. Enough!"

  
 - and her voice is more familiar than anything he could have possibly felt.

  
_Luke._

  
_Brother._

  
_Come home._

  
"Leia," he says, and he remembers.

  
*

  
_There is fire - rivers of it, red and angry, outside of the viewscreen; he is cold. He is crying. He senses his sister, senses she is near, that she is not crying._

  
_He senses his mother. She is crying. She is dying._

  
_He cries harder._

  
_Someone's arms are holding him; the blanket smells like ash; like smoke._

  
_"Let me - let me - "_

  
_"No." There are many voices, and they are all angry._

  
_Luke cries._

  
_"Let me hold them."_

  
_"Let him hold our son," says his mother._

  
_"I won't. Not if I don't know." The voice is female. Her lightsabers are bright, blazing white. They are raised, and Luke feels safe._

  
_He hiccups, and stops crying. There is a hand braced against his forehead, cool and dry._

  
_His mother stops crying. Her breath grows softer, weaker._

  
_Leia is afraid._

  
_There is light cradling him, cradling them all. It soothes him, and says, no._

  
_Luke does not understand. He gives a mighty heave, his first real breath, and wails._

  
_The world goes white._

  
_"Is he - "_

  
_"She - "_

  
_"It can't be - "_

  
_His mother sits up; she is not dying. Her face is beautiful: kind, but sad._

  
*

  
"I'm the lost prince."

  
The words fall from his mouth, startlingly real in the silence.

  
"What," says Sidious, venomous and honey-slow.

  
"I'm the lost prince." Luke enunciates each word, deliberate. "Tell me I'm wrong."

  
The Sith stares at him, yellow eyes and yellow teeth stretching into a monstrous grin.

  
"Skywalker," he says. "It seems I have underestimated you."

  
There is a rumble; the lights of the ship flicker, and a warning light goes off in the front port - they are being boarded.

  
Luke ignites his saber; he has never felt so angry. For the first time, it glows - not blue, not green, not white - but a flickering, malicious purple.

  
Sidious regards him, still as a predator. He lifts his hand, lazily - and strikes, a bolt of Force-lightning whip-cracking across the space between them.

  
Luke catches it on the blade of his saber, almost surprised at the absence of pain.

  
"You'll need to do better than that," he says. "Sidious."

  
Another proximity light blares - another ship is approaching. A ferocious clanking sounds down the hall, the sounds of running feet.

  
"How _dare_ you - "

  
"Not Sidious. Palpatine," says Luke, tasting the word in his mouth. "Sheev Palpatine. I read those holos over and over. I know who you are."

  
"Do you think it matters? Do you think you have any control - "

  
"Tell me the truth," Luke demands, fiercely. With a twist of his wrist, the lightning rebounds, striking Palpatine in the chest.

  
Palpatine's face is set alight with an arcane glee; it grows older and stretches, skin melting from bone.

  
Luke presses forward. For the first time, he takes, takes like he never could before. He has never felt so starved; so fulfilled; he chokes on the way the Force screams against him, desperately.

  
Palpatine looks impossibly satisfied. "Yes, Luke," says the Sith. "Feel your anger, your hate! Let it consume you!"

  
"No," says Luke, weakly. The lightning spills out from his chest, from his blade; he cannot control it.

  
"Kill me," Palpatine rasps, "and complete your fall to the Dark Side."

  
*

  
When Anakin reaches the bridge and sees - Luke, lightning, the horrid spectre of Palpatine's face - his vision splits in two; he sees a memory from another lifetime - from before.

  
Mace's - no, Luke's lightsaber is inches away from Palpatine's throat. Two faces, twisted with agony; the shrieking is terrible, but Anakin is calm.

  
He does what he should have always done - the third option he could have never seen, when he was a young Knight - and pulls with the Force, turning the lightning blast onto himself.

  
It scarcely hurts. It takes him a moment to realize that the lightning is Luke's, not Palpatine's: at almost the same moment, the strike cuts off; Luke collapses; and Anakin leaps.

  
His saber meets Palpatine's in a blaze of red-tinged glory.

  
"Step away," says Anakin, sinking deeply into a Soresu stance, "from my son."

  
Palpatine cackles, remorseless. His saber darts forward, back; Anakin parries, counters, twists the Force to throw him off-balance. The Sith Lord stumbles, and both realize: Palpatine is unmatched.

  
Anakin coils and strikes, pressing his advantage. Palpatine parries and then, snarling, runs, clenching his fist to bring the ship's panelling down on top of them. Anakin dodges; the smoke and sparks whirl and leap into his face. When his vision clears, he sees Palpatine, crouched ferally over Luke - and the smuggler, roaring, brandishing a blaster, behind them.

  
Palpatine turns, twists both of his wrists; the blaster explodes, burying flak and shrapnel into the smuggler's guts. He doubles over, wheezing, and Palpatine tosses him aside. Then, lifting Luke more easily than a flopping ragdoll, the Sith places long-nailed fingers against the pale skin of his throat.

  
Leia rushes into the room, saber drawn, Obi-Wan and the Wookie behind her.

  
"Move," says Palpatine, "and I kill him." His eyes are those of a cornered animal, yellow and distinct. There is a moment of brief, terrible silence.

  
Anakin lets out a rough sob, and sheathes his saber.

  
Palpatine rises, slowly; his skin is stretched too-tight over his skull, and his smile has teeth.

  
Then, from the bundle in Palpatine's arms: a voice, tremulous and cracking.

  
"Please," says Luke. "Wait."

  
*

  
Luke is alive.

  
Han, hand pressed to his bleeding abdomen, fingers white and losing their strength, thinks: _for that it might all be worth it_ , and then, _stars, you only get sentimental when you're about to die._

  
Luke's voice washes thinly against his ears; his brain is ringing like a badly-tuned comm.

  
"Please," he says. "Let me heal him. I'll do what you ask, just let me save him."

  
"Why?" says Palpatine, and Luke answers, "Because I love him," like it's nothing.

  
From the corner of Han's vision, Darth Vader makes a rough, broken noise. Han lurches to his feet, chokes out an inaudible refusal, but it's too late; Luke is stumbling toward him on unsteady legs, hands outstretched.

  
"You can't," says Han. Luke's face is swimming in front of him, his eyes glinting with tears.

  
"I have to," says Luke.

  
Han sighs, deeply: his last breath. "So do I," he says, quietly. Before Luke's eyes have a chance to widen, he summons his strength and pushes, sending him stumbling towards Leia; in the same moment, he draws his last blaster and fires.

  
Palpatine screeches and thrusts out a wild hand. Han's feet leave the ground; his head crunches wetly against the sharp, torn side of the shuttle, and finally, blessedly, the world goes dark.

  
*

  
Luke screams.

  
Han's last, desperate shot goes hopelessly wide.

  
Palpatine stands, unhurt, snarling with triumph -

  
 - and stops short, a smoking hole punched neatly through his forehead.

  
He is frozen there, for a moment; then he crumples forward, soundlessly. His cloak slips to reveal the back of his head, his neck, and, abruptly: Sheev Palpatine is nothing more than a dead man.

  
"Luke." The voice is rich and powerful. A queen - no, an Empress. Next to her stands a tall Togrutan, her twin white lightsabers drawn.

  
Padme Amidala holsters her blaster, and steps delicately over her triumph, eyes heavy with grief. "He's gone," she says, gently, and Luke's lip trembles. "He won't harm you again."

  
"I need to - " Luke's voice gives out.

  
She places a hand on his shoulder, and walks with him, toward Han Solo's still body. Luke kneels over him, places his hands on his chest, and closes his eyes.

  
*

  
The landscape of the Force is different, this time.

  
Palpatine is fundamentally, wholly gone. The Force sits lighter on his shoulders, friendlier and yet more expansive. Luke can sense his father, mother, sister, and the two Knights, along with the shining threads of love that bind them, densely, together.

  
He can't see Han. He can see only the wilting bond sprouting from his own heart, rent in two.

  
Luke sits back, and looks into the Force, and asks.

  
His plea reverberates into the soundscape, weighted with the force of his love, and Luke concentrates, watches it evolve into brightness, into Light. His vision blurs, and he feels both empty and full, serene and yet desperately fearful - balanced.

  
Luke shimmers, brimming with the Force, and Han Solo opens his eyes.

  
*

  
"Did I ever tell you," says Han, voice barely more than a smarmy whisper - "did I ever tell you I've got a thing for the glowing?"

  
Luke laughs, wipes the soot off Han's face, and kisses him.

  
*

  
They sit on the designer leather seat of the Empress's royal shuttle, across from Han's bacta tank.

  
"There's so much I want to tell you," says Padme. Luke meets Leia's eyes, squeezes his mother's hand.

  
"We have time," he says, slowly. "I wonder if - "

  
The door opens, revealing a golden droid bearing a platter of drinks.

  
"Ah! A newcomer. I must introduce myself. I am See-Threepio," says the droid, very quickly and very close to his face. "Human-cyborg - oh, bless the Maker!" The platter goes crashing to the ground. "Artoo, is that you?"

  
*

  
"Really," says Ahsoka Tano. "You made friends with the smuggler? After all that?"

  
Chewie gives a petulant growl that probably means, _we met under stranger circumstances_ , and also, _don't get me started._

  
In the distance, Anakin and Padme are talking, barefooted, on a smooth stone outcropping; Leia and Han are unsuccessfully teaching Luke to swim in the sparkling Nabooan lake.

  
"Snips! They need you!" Anakin yells, and she cracks a brief smile at the old nickname. It had taken years for either of them to trust enough to use it again, but now -

  
\- it all seems like what could have been, if Palpatine had never ruined them.

  
"Not like this," says Obi-Wan. His blue eyes meet hers, reflecting her own musings. "Not quite so peaceful, nor so balanced in the Force."

  
He's right, as he always is.

  
But - as Ahsoka watches them, happy and loving and free - she thinks of the jador snippet around Luke's neck, and Padme's motions to make the monarchy obsolete, and the way Anakin's sabers glow white to match hers, and she knows -

  
\- regardless, they were never a story about the Light, or the Dark, or even the Force at all. They are instead, each of them, a story about something more dangerous, and yet more infinite: love.

**Author's Note:**

> warning: small mention/description of a panic attack right after Palpatine destroys Luke's home station. descriptions of emotional and physical abuse enacted by Palpatine onto luke, in most scenes they have together.
> 
> -please leave kudos or a comment if you liked it!! i LIVE to talk to y'all about sw aka Keeping Up With The Skywalkers!!
> 
> -the interpretation of Luke's ability to create & harness the light for healing is based off of Matthew Stover's Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor, which is a Good and also heartbreaking read if any of y'all want to go for that
> 
> -writing sabine & ezra flirting with the hopeless gay twins saved my gotdamn life guys!! (sabine: i'm going straight -- me: yeah fucken right)
> 
> -also in this fic Luke is 100% in his Gucci black threads from ROTJ & Leia's in that bounty hunter outfit that made us all gay ofc


End file.
